Another Transmission from the Crisis Lands

January is a bastard, it really is.
2:00pm in the afternoon, meeting Andy for a coffee in half an hour at the Meeting Place (or is it Meeting House? I can never remember). Sunny outside. Drops of rain that look like Spring Rain. Sounds of footsteps in this house of bedsits, and my washing still in my laundry bag I can't be bothered to put away.
The clock ticks for Brighton. Two minutes, or two months rather, to midnight for this coastal town I've lived in for the past ten years. Leaving here at the end of March? The shadow that has, for me, crippled this city since we lost the flat on Wilbury Crescent, tightens it grip. The increasingly difficult terrain of living in Brighton is now proving impossible to walk on.
Paralysis reigns.
Maybe there will be a last minute reprieve for this place, but, sitting in the launderette this morning, I rang my Dad, asked him if it was possible for me to come home for a few months. To put it simply, I cannot afford to live here any more.
Perranporth? And then what?
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Black dogs, it seems, aren't just superstition. The Old Shuck smiles, and in it's red burning eyes, I see myself reflected there.
Not a particularly comforting reflection of yourself.